


they found you on the bathroom floor (staring down a loaded gun)

by hidefromeveryone



Series: Bandom One-Shots [12]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 13:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11381229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidefromeveryone/pseuds/hidefromeveryone
Summary: Sometimes, the dysphoria is so overwhelming that Mikey doesn't know if he can make it another day, let alone make it through the rest of his life.So, he deals with it the way he deals with everything - by making himself suffer even more.Because he doesn't deserve happiness, and he sure as hell doesn't deserve to live.





	they found you on the bathroom floor (staring down a loaded gun)

**Author's Note:**

> aha. i'm back at it once again, projecting my life onto fictional characters. because i've promised some people very important to me that i won't die, even though i would really like to.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling cast a dim green glow onto Mikey's face, illuminating his features under the dewy tears trickling down his cheeks. Summer's stifling heat clung to every corner of his body as his pajama pants grew heavier with sweat, the elastic waistband digging into his hips. His binder lay discarded on his desk chair a few feet away, and his old Anthrax shirt two sizes too big buried his chest in enough fabric that he could almost forget it was there. 

Almost. 

Even if Mikey could forget the way that his breasts seemed to mock him throughout his life, he could never forget the way his hips curved outwards from his torso and made themselves known. He could never forget the soft edges of his limbs, and the way his voice was three octaves too high every time he dared to speak. He could never forget the way his lips fell into a small pout when they were resting, and his stomach pouched slightly outwards to protect the reproductive organs he never wanted. He could never forget that his body was wrong, in every way, and that no matter what he did it would never truly change. 

His skin was too tight over his bones, and it was suffocating him. 

There was no real way to explain to another who didn't experience this dysphoria what it truly felt like. He could use the analogy that it was like being born into a set of clothes that never fit right, but you didn't realize it until someone pointed it out to you. And then, the fabric keeps growing tighter and tighter until it chokes you, forcing you to destroy it however you can in an attempt to get it off of you. Eventually, if you're lucky enough to have enough money to buy new clothes, you can find some sort of relief. But even then, your shoes will still never fit. 

However, that analogy only scraped the surface of what this agony was like, of knowing that everything about you was wrong in ways invisible to strangers walking down the street. 

Mikey was tired of feeling lost in his own skin to the point that he couldn't even change his clothes for days on end, all because that meant having to see everything that was wrong on top of feeling it. He was tired of cringing at the stray mention of his old name, clinching at the stray feminine pronouns a waiter would throw at him when he went to a restaurant with his friends. He was tired of knowing that everything about him was wrong, and false, and that it could never be fixed. 

His window was cracked open an inch, just enough to let the noises of the world breathe into his body and remind him that he was alive. He kept trying to breath at a relaxed pace, to let the oxygen enter his lungs in time with the beat of the song stuck in his head. 

But, it wasn't working. Because his breathing pattern was erratic, and forced, and built out of nothing but anxiety and sheer panic. His hands were shaking, and his chest was tight as he fought to keep his vision focused on the small star stickers which transformed his ceiling into the universe. 

Mikey had always wondered just how it was possible to be numb and panicking in the same moment. 

Silence meets the sound of his baited breath as the night crawls onwards, and he doesn't know how much time passed before he was able to calm himself down. The blankets were twisted around his ankles, their Star Wars pattern made of childhood memories and poisonous nostalgia. Reaching underneath his pillow, Mikey fumbled about until he found the small object he was looking for.

The blade was small, and thin, and stained dark from its many vinegar cleanings. The edges of the metal were curved instead of pointed. It hurts less than the sharp points, and makes deeper gashes with less effort involved. A few flecks of rust were tarnishing it's dull shine, and Mikey scraped them off with his fingernail before sliding his fingers under the waistband of his pants and pulling them down to his ankles. 

He used to be careful about this whole ordeal, making only shallow cuts on his right thigh and getting nervous that they were infected when a red shadow appeared around them. He used to sit in the shower, and watch the blood run down the drain as he took a shower afterwards. He used to tell himself it would only happen a few times, and that he had control over it. 

But it had spread, and spread, and spread until he did it even when he didn't feel any need to anymore. 

The moon filtered in through his blinds as he pushed the metal hard into the flesh of his thighs, and quickly drew the blade through his skin at a sharp angle. He paused to see the small wound fill with blood before repeating the action again, and again, and again until there was no more room on his thigh to make any more wounds. 

So he switched to the other side, and repeated his actions until the two sides of his body matched and the metallic tang of blood sat heavy in the air. 

Pulling his pants back up over his hips, Mikey ignored the way that the grey fabric quickly turned burgundy and sank into his skin. 

Sinking back into his mattress, Mikey closed his eyes and ignored the way the stars were dancing behind his eyes. His breathing was calm now, and his hands still as he waited for sleep to take him. 

Sleep, or some other blessed nothingness that allowed him to cease existing without hurting anyone that he loved. At least for a few hours, or a few centuries. 

His phone was vibrating by his waist, its small movements pulling him out of the strange trance he had fallen into. Rolling over, he brought it up towards his face, the dim lighting hurting his eyes in the dark of the room. 

**(3:45 a.m.) frnkie: the moon landing was a hoax.**

_(3:46 a.m.) moikey: Go to sleep, Frank._

**(3:47 a.m.) frnkie: why are you awake?**

_(3:48 a.m.) moikey: Why are you awake?_

**(3:49 a.m.) frnkie: seriously, dude, are you okay?**

_(3:50 a.m.) moikey: What's okay?_

**(3:51 a.m.) frnkie: haha very funny.**

**(4:01 a.m.) frnkie: mikey?**

**(4:15 a.m.) frnkie: i'm coming over.**

_(4:16 a.m.) moikey: Don't._

**(4:17 a.m.) frnkie: too late.**

Leaning backwards, Mikey's head knocked into the tiling on the bathroom wall, it's ocean-blue tint reflecting green in the yellow fluorescent lighting. With his knees drawn into his chest, Mikey made himself as small as he possibly could. His right hand lay on the floor, finger poised over the trigger of the gun. The safety was off, and it was fully loaded in the palm of his hand. 

After Frank messaged him, Mikey had realized just how _tired_ he was. 

He was tired of anxiety holding his life in its hands. He was tired of his body being wrong, and the way it was suffocating him. He was tired of feeling nothing and everything at the same time. He was tired of existing, and knowing that he wasn't supposed to be alive. He was tired of being selfish, and of being happy when others deserved it more. He was tired of living, but not of being alive. 

Mikey just wanted everything to stop. 

So now, he was sitting on the bathroom floor, staring down at a loaded gun and shaking with indecision. 

Bringing it upwards towards his face, Mikey bit his tongue as the smooth black barrel fell right between his eyes. He closed his eyes, finger on the trigger, and froze. All it would take was a simple twitch of his finger, and his brains would be splattered around the small room, red and pink and _dead_. 

"Mikey?" Frank was in the doorway, his mouth spread in a small circle as he stared down at his best friend, who was two seconds away from being dead, and five seconds away from being a memory. Stepping closer, he flinched as Mikey's wide eyes stared up at him around the barrel of the gun. 

"Frank?" His hands were shaking badly know, and if the wrong tremor came along it would be over, the trigger pulled and Mikey dead on the ground. Frank was kneeling next to him now, his hands hovering around Mikey's own, waiting to see if he could take the weapon away without killing his best friend in the process. 

"Can you put down the gun, Mikey? Please? For me?" Mikey's eyes flicked between Frank's face and the gun. Biting his lip, he closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath before loosening his grip on the instrument and handing Frank the gun. 

Frank clicked the safety back on before emptying its magazine and tossing the weapon behind him and pocketing the bullets. He placed his hands on Mikey's shoulders, wincing as he curled further into himself. 

"Hey, Mikes, are you here with me?" A nod of the head, and Frank signed in relief. Glancing downwards, he took in the sight of Mikey's pants and frowned. Gently touching the stained fabric, he heard Mikey's wince and quickly withdrew his hand. 

"Mikey, can you look at me?" Several minutes passed before he met Frank's gaze, tears brimming on his eyes as he choked back a sob and began hurriedly apologizing. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay. You're okay, Mikey. I need to get you cleaned up, okay? Can I do that?" A nod yes and Frank was helping him off the ground, carefully bringing Mikey to his feet. He swayed in place before falling into Frank's chest and burying his face into his shirt. 

"Please don't tell Gee, Frankie." Frank patted Mikey on the back and whispered out reassurances before lifting him onto the counter. He pulled the fabric of the pants down, recoiling slightly as the fabric had to be peeled away from the skin, the blood having fused the two together. The many cuts had stopped bleeding long ago, but the open wounds were now filled with lint from the cloth, and Frank carefully cleaned and bandaged Mikey's thighs in the silence of the bathroom. Finished, he tapped Mikey's knee until his eyes met his. 

"Why, Mikes?" He looked down, unable to meet Frank's eyes as he responded. 

"It was all too much, Frankie." Helping him off of the counter, Frank ignored his protests as he carried him downstairs, and into the basement. Nudging Gerard awake, he waited until confusion passed into understanding on his features to set Mikey down on the bed. 

"Again?" It was directed to Frankie, as Mikey had laid down on the bed and was curled into Gerard's side, already falling fast asleep. 

"Yeah, he had a rough night." Frank watched as Gerard moved Mikey into a more comfortable position before standing, heading across his room to grab more blankets for his brother. Turning, Frank began heading up the stairs and only stopped when he heard Gerard speak. 

"Frank, thanks for coming." Smiling, Frank turned and met Gerard's eyes before responding. He was already back at his brother's side, tucking him in carefully. 

"Always. Anything for you two." Leaving, Frank knew that Mikey was safe now. 

He wasn't better, or alright, but he was safe. 

And that was enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @hidefromeveryone 
> 
> work title taken from: "cemetery drive" by my chemical romance.


End file.
